Marching On The Club Book 3

Chapter 11

Chapter 11
William. I just could not get my mind off of him. 'Why am I thinking of William right now? I need to work on my confidence in the band! Why do I even care about him?' Ever since his speech about my broken heart, I couldn't get my mind off of him! What's wrong with me? Even before we load the busses for a game or a competition, we sat next to each other like we were good friends and all. But sometimes, I would look into William's eyes deeply and I would just stare at them as if he was my reflection. William didn't seem to mind because he didn't even say anything about it. He didn't go; "You're creepy!" In which, I can imagine that he'd say something like that, but he probably doesn't even notice the way I stare deeply into his eyes.
Before rehearsal one day, Elizabeth and I hung out in the hallway right outside the band room. "So I see the way you're looking at William," she said romantically. I didn't know what to say. Should I trust her, or shouldn't I? "Oh, I don't know," I said. "Come on, Jennifer! I know you're in love!" I wanted Elizabeth off of my case, but at the same time I kind of wanted to spill because she's my friend.
"William's... Different; I'll give him that, but so what?"
"You two should go out!"
'Go out? I never thought of it,' I thought to myself. "You mean date," I asked kind of hopeful that she didn't mean it that way. "Yes. You should ask him out, on a date." 'Um, I wouldn't dream of it. Would I?'
That night, all I could think of was William. And all of my thoughts of him turned into dreams. Dreams that would never come true; wishful dreams of William actually liking me too. And each time I woke from those dreams in the morning, I would feel either angry or sad. I was angry because I liked him, but sad because I was for certain that he didn't feel the same way towards me. He would never want someone like me to be his girlfriend; why would he?
One afternoon after school, I wrote a poem about how I felt about him. Or at least, what he does in my life. I used the pronoun "you," because names wouldn't go with the poem; especially his name. It wouldn't have a ring to it, and one day I showed William the poem. "Is the word "you," me," he asked. "Yes," I said. He continued reading the poem. When he got to the end of the poem he said; "Very nice." His face turned a little red, and I figured he was blushing. 'Great, now look at what I've done,' I thought as he left the room to gather his thoughts. But something didn't seem right. It was as if all the hints flew over his head, and that none of the hints in either my actions or the poem crossed his mind. I felt dumb as all as get out.